“There are more of them?”
“Now you understand, Mr. Baker, why I kept a low profile drinking at bars. Once these people find me, they don’t stop,” Dave says. “My only chance is to outrun them until they lose my trail. And I can’t do that flying something like this cheap knockoff. I need my craft. We’re going back to the desert in Roswell.”
I wouldn’t say killing people with the kind of reckless abandon Dave does counts as keeping a low profile, but I see his point. One craft of Men in Black was bad enough. What about another? And another? I don’t think my body would be able to keep up.
On top of that, I wonder if Dave realizes why I need to keep him alive in the first place. I have a stake in this, too, and her name is Ava. I’m not about to go off the grid for his sake alone.
For now, I’ll play along. Dave can’t read my mind unless we’re in his craft, so I can put on a brave face without worrying about my doubts.
“Sounds good. I want my knife back anyway,” I say.
The lack of windows on the craft makes it difficult to gauge our exact altitude, but after 10 minutes or so of this graceful falling, I expect to feel us touching down. By my best estimate, there’s still plenty of nightfall left to cover the journey back to Earth, although I do wonder what ever came of Skywatchers 51.
Not that Dave would care, but someone must be looking for them, right? They didn’t exist in a vacuum. If they’re with others, the police are sure to be out looking for bodies. Or maybe they’re irritated with UFO tourists. Somehow I doubt it. There’s plenty of money to be made off these saps.
But they’re not saps, not after what I’ve seen. They’re the ones who found out the Truth, capital T, and they were right all along. The irony is that even if they survived Dave and produced the kind of hard evidence skeptics demand, still no one would believe them.
Life’s a pisser like that.
“Are we there yet?” I say, mimicking a bored kid in a backseat.
“A couple more minutes,” Dave says. He stands at a control panel with his eyes closed. His hands don’t touch the clutter of buttons and levers, though. “Believe me, I can’t wait to get back. Could use a beer.”
“Me, too,” I say. “Or a cup of coffee.”
“Whatever you want. It’s on me.”
“Hey, Dave. Why don’t you just stay in your craft and drink? Why mess around with bars if you like staying low?” I say. It’s a question I’ve wanted to ask for some time.
“Because for all your faults, your kind is entertaining,” Dave says. “It’s like live-action TV.”
“Network TV?” I say, playing along to pass the time.
“No, basic cable. After midnight,” Dave says with a smirk.
Well played, Dave.
The joke lightens the mood, but only for a second. The craft suddenly jerks to one side, then lurches end over end. The abrupt motion sends me tumbling into the wall, where my hand finds a solid grip before my face can collide with a pipe and turn to applesauce.
“What’s happening?” I say, trying my best to hold the vomit down.
Dave’s pressed against the wall on the far side of the room, hanging on for dear life. He manages to say, “They’re back.”
I don’t need him to explain any more. Dave piloted us back to his downed craft, and there’s already a welcoming committee of Men in Black waiting for us. Just as before, they cancel out The Current in Dave with the special ink in their black suits. That means we’re due for the second crash landing of the evening.
Hopefully, it’s right on top of their heads.
The free fall only lasts a few more seconds, seeing as how we were close to the ground already. Makes me wonder about the effective range of that ink.
“Hang on,” I think Dave says, but he’s overwhelmed by the crunch of metal. The lights flicker and die as the craft comes to a violent stop. I can’t tell which end of the room I end up on, but I’m suddenly up to my neck in sand.
The concussive force of the stop combined with the crushing tomb of sand makes it difficult to breathe. I can only take sips of air, far less than my frantically pumping heart requires. It doesn’t take long before I pass out from the pain, the lack of air, exhaustion or some combination of all three.
I return to lucidity with a large swallow of sweet desert air. It’s peppered with sand from my mouth, but the flow of air into my lungs wakes the rest of my body all the same.
The good news is I’m no longer in the craft. The bad news is Dave and I are on the ground between two shattered crafts about 50 feet apart. One, I presume, is Dave’s, although it hardly looks the same. Seems someone already salvaged pieces of the craft and carted them away. The other was our escort back to Earth, and there’s no way it’s getting up from the trench it dug without a crane. There must be a sea of wreckage a mile in any direction from my spot at the bull’s eye.
I don’t have to stretch my sore neck and look around to know the Men in Black are there. I can’t think of anyone else who would drag us out of the wreck. I draw the .45, close my eyes and shout toward the stars.
“Listen up. I only have two shots left in this thing, but I’ll make each of them count. Which one of you wants to be first?” I say. Feels good to shout, to vent. I’m past my limit on all fronts. Mentally. Physically. Hell, probably spiritually, too.
“We care don’t,” a voice says from somewhere in the carnage. Its terrible grammar could only come from a Man in Black.
“You don’t care? Then I hope you don’t mind us leaving,” I say, preparing for whatever sneak attack they have in store.
“Go ahead you,” the voice says, this time fainter than before, as if the Man in Black is walking away.
“Really?” I say with equal measures of surprise, relief and suspicion. I claw to my feet using a warm chunk of metal as leverage. My vision is blurry, but I can make out a dark shape increasing the gap between us. “Where are you going?”
“Containment clean soon,” the Man in Black says.
“What?”
“You get clean soon. You no are U.T.”
Clean? I don’t get it.
A glance at Dave shows me everything I need to know. Now I know why the Men in Black aren’t interested in us anymore. It’s not good.
Dave’s dead.
I don’t need to be a doctor to know someone with a severed head is dead. Dave’s head rests on his chest. Even as a U.T., he succumbed to one too many crash landings. I doubt the Men in Black decapitated him. They needed him alive, not dead.
Which means he’s of no value to them anymore. The same goes for myself, seeing as how that Man in Black told me, “You no are U.T.” My cover’s blown. I’m back to being a regular human cockroach.
Dave’s of no value to me, either. A dead Dave means no Dave for Biyu, too. And that equals no surgery for my Ava. On the one hand, it means China won’t be developing the Apocalypse Bomb any time soon. On the other, is that worth the life of my daughter?
Hardly. This world isn’t worth saving if my daughter isn’t in it.
And do I really give a damn whether China gets this technology anyway? Countries build new weapons all the time. Today it’s the Apocalypse Bomb, tomorrow it’s something else. I can’t always be in the middle of it. Like Dave said, humanity’s lust to kill itself will never run dry, and it doesn’t take a super weapon to leave a bloody mark in history. Four of the five bloodiest wars in history took place before 1865.
Not that any of that matters now. Without Dave, I’m as good as gone. I’m not sure what that Man in Black meant by a “containment clean,” but I’m guessing it means some of their buddies are coming to mop up. They can’t leave all this reality-bending evidence laying around the desert for anyone to find.
And that means I’m probably breathing my last few breaths. They’ll kill me and leave no trace behind.
This is it. I’ve finally bottomed out. There’s nothing left to lose or gain. I’m better off not giving the Men in Black the satisfaction of kil
ling me. The two shots in the .45 will be plenty for a final “fuck you.” But first, I want my knife back.
I drag myself to the spot where I last saw it, where the Men in Black exacted that thorough beat down. Finding it still lodged in a sheet of metal, I use my last bit of strength to back the ESEE’s blade out. That knife is a better friend than most people I’ve met, and I don’t want to die alone.
Utterly exhausted, I sheath the knife and collapse back onto the sand, closing my eyes and listening to the muted static of the still desert night.
Don’t just lay there, asshole. Get up.
I ignore my conscience. I’m spent. Hobbling to my feet would be like climbing a mountain at this point.
Get your lazy carcass up, Chase.
Wait a minute. Am I thinking that?
No, you’re not.
Is that? Could that be?
Yes, dipshit, it’s me, Dave. The Men in Black are far enough away now that I can use The Current again. The telepathy tech on my craft still works.
I look over to Dave’s body. The head is still detached. He looks as dead as can be, but there’s something about him I didn’t notice before. There’s no blood anywhere near him. Strange.
Yeah, no shit it’s strange. And I’m doing more without a head than your lazy ass is right now. I used The Current on the way down to make it look like I’m dead to buy us some time. Pulled it off before I completely lost control. Now listen up, jackass. We need to act fast.
I’m listening.
Dave’s plan is straightforward, but incomplete. The first part is fairly simple. In order to regain my strength, all I need to do is crawl back into his craft, find Dave’s stash of cocaine on the wall next to the control panel, stick some of that junk up my nose and wait for the Men in Black’s clean up crew to come. Then it’s as simple as…
Actually, I don’t know comes next. The Men in Black must’ve returned, although I can’t see them out there in the night, and Dave can no longer use The Current to leverage the tech in his craft for telepathy.
No time to waste second-guessing things.
I haul myself into the ruins of the craft, hoisting my weary body through the demolished window. The bones in my shoulder grind like a pestle and mortar as I reach up and run a hand along the wall next to the control panel. I hit on a cupboard of sorts and twist the latch open. Inside is a pile of broken glass vials, as my fingers painfully report, but I locate one still intact. Bringing it to my face, I see the trademark white powder corked inside.
I’ve known plenty of drug users in my time. They’d all confess to it in a minute, even if they’d never admit to being a drug abuser, as if there’s a line between the two. I’m not sure I know the difference, just like I don’t know how this cocaine will affect me. Does it only take one time to become addicted? Will this screw with my senses and put me in a worse spot? How much is a dose? Is this even cocaine?
Only one way to find out.
Mimicking what I’ve seen in the movies, I tap a thin line out onto a relatively flat chunk of debris. Thumbing one nostril, I breathe in slow and deep with my nose an inch or so from the cocaine.
People kill each other over this stuff?
It feels like the worst kind of wasabi bomb erupted in my sinus, burning the whole way down and leaving an awful taste like morning breath pudding in the back of my throat. For some reason, I take this as a sign to do more, thinking the first go at it was in error. Nope. It’s even worse the second time around.
I make the rookie mistake of coughing, sending the cocaine into the air. There’s still more in the vial, but I’m not up for it. I wait a minute to recollect myself, and I find it easier and easier to ignore the burn as the seconds tick by. In fact, my pulse picks up and the sharp pains plaguing my body dull their edges. I get to my feet and stretch, feeling more alive than I can remember.
Now I get it.
The rumble of diesel engines off in the distance offsets the rush of euphoria. It’s a deep, guttural, mechanical sound that reminds me of the heavy machinery from my sandhog days.
The clean up crew. They’ll probably load everything into tractor-trailers and haul it off to some military base, but not before making sure Dave and I are dead.
Keeping out of view behind a twisted piece of metal, I peer outside. Sure enough, a squad of four Men in Black is headed this way. They’re carrying two stretchers, presumably to recover our bodies. And now that they suspect Dave is dead and unable to use The Current against them should they lose their suits, they’ve slung assault rifles over their shoulders. Even in the moonlit night, I recognize the guns as 5.56mm caliber M4 carbines. Military hardware.
They’re not messing around anymore.
I’m still stuck with two rounds in my .45, the ESEE knife and a coked out brain. I’ve got about 30 seconds before they spot the trail in the sand where I dragged myself into the craft. That’s not much time to come up with a plan, but at least they’re headed my way instead of giving the coup de gras to Dave.
I’m corned like a rabbit in a wildfire, and I suppress the urge to run. No, now is the time to think of my daughter, the fate of the world and to fight.
And that’s exactly what I do when the first Man in Black steps into the craft.
Everyone from the Inca to World War II soldiers knew the dirty little secret about the combination of stimulants and warfare: they go together like peanut butter and jelly. A bump of cocaine, amphetamine, khat and others can break out the berserker in the average soldier. Hell, it’s not so different from worker drones dosing caffeine before deploying to battlefields on the freeway and in the office.
I’m not thinking about those things as I get the drop on the Man in Black coming in through the window. I’m barely thinking at all. The drugs turn everything into a numb blur, lowering the innate inhibitions both my mind and muscles had to decapitating.
The Man in Black’s head parts ways with his shoulders as I hack at his neck with the ESEE, staying off to the side and out of reach of that M4. The filthy crust of gore covering my body gets a fresh coat of paint as the body tumbles into the debris.
That’s the thing about assault rifles like the M4. If something, like a knife, is closer to the person holding the gun than the end of the barrel, that firearm is as good as a stick.
I dispense that lesson to the other three Men in Black just outside the craft. They crack a few shots off as I bolt out through the window. If they hit me, I don’t realize it. I’m more focused on pummeling the blade of the ESEE knife into and through the throat of the nearest Man in Black.
The other two drop their stretchers and back off a few feet to line up a shot. Before I know to tell my hands to do it, I drop the knife and pull out the .45. My last two shots connect with each of their foreheads.
It’s all over before I can remember to breathe, which I do in labored gulps on bended knee. I run my hands up and down my body to search for injuries, but it’s pointless. Between the drugs and the gore, it’s impossible to detect anything. I’ll worry about that later. The ominous rumble of heavy machinery overcomes the ringing in my ears. It’s not off in the distance now. It’s within the field of debris, coughing diesel fumes into the desert night.
I pick up one of the stray M4s and empty its mag into the Men in Black just to be safe. I holster my .45 and knife, trading them for two M4s over my shoulders and one in my hands. Climbing to the top of Dave’s craft, I survey the machinery coming my way.
Sure enough, four bulldozers plow sand and debris from my north, south, east and west. It looks like they’re corralling everything into piles for pick up. I make out the shapes of a front-end loader and two tractor-trailers beyond them, presumably waiting to collect the debris.
The thought occurs to me to shoot the vehicles with the M4s until they explode, but I dismiss it. That’s the stuff of movies. Even if it were true, there’s a skyscraper’s worth of metal in that machinery. There’s no way a bullet could penetrate into the gas tank anyway.
I
could take a few potshots and hope they get the hint, but, again, what’s the point? It’s not like they’re going to pack it up. More Men in Black must be on their way.
The numbness swirling in my body recedes, and the pain starts to inch back into focus. It’s time for another bump. I slide down the craft and pick my way back to the cabinet, this time taking better care to fish out a fresh vial. A couple snorts later, the neurons in my brain heat up, and an idea hits me so obvious I’m ashamed to admit it.
Burn the Men in Black. The machinery is far enough away that even if the Men in Black are driving, Dave should be able to use The Current.
I drag the four bodies by the ankles into a pile, then hold my lighter to their dark suits. They’re just as flammable (or is it inflammable?) as before. In a matter of minutes, a pile of well-done Men in Black rests at my feet.
You could’ve hit the self-destruct button under the control panel on my craft, but I liked your way better.
I didn’t think that thought. That must’ve come from…
“Dave?” I say, turning toward the two halves of his body.
They’re missing. In their place is the fully restored Dave I’ve come to know and loathe. His head is seamlessly reattached.
“Cocaine is a hell of a drug, isn’t it?” Dave says and clears the dust from his bushy hair. I start to say something, but he cuts me off. “No time for talking. We’ve got to act fast.”
I reclaim my perch on top Dave’s craft and use one of the M4s with a night vision scope on it to skirmish with anything that moves. Below me on the sand, Dave uses The Current to piece the wreckage of his craft back together. The rumble of heavy machinery dulls to a purr, and I watch headlights flicker on and off in the distance. The power is literally being sucked out of them.
Chase Baker & the Apocalypse Bomb (A Chase Baker Thriller Series Book 7) Page 7
